Meetings
by BorealLands
Summary: "Do you ever think about saucepans?" Sometimes the world acts in mysterious ways, and our passing interactions with people yield unexpected results. How did Ezra end up drinking in a pub during the daytime, and why did he speak to Aria?


"Do you ever think about saucepans?" The question startled him, and he shook himself out of his reverie to look at the young woman beside him. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"Do you ever think about saucepans?" she repeated. She didn't _look_ insane. No, she looked quite normal. Jeans, t-shirt, and a red coat. Dark loose curls a little past her shoulders, not mussed or sticking up in the air like some crazy lady's. Perhaps a bit if a devilish glint in her eyes.

"No..." he slowly replied, just as confused as before. "Should I?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. They're just interesting. They're not frying pans, they're not pots, and they're definitely not kettles. Now those kitchen goods always get the attention―you hit someone over the head with a frying pan, and the pot calls the kettle black. But what about the poor little saucepan?" Before he could process the information and formulate a reply, she laughed, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and walked away.

Yes, she was definitely insane.

* * *

One year. One year since his encounter with that strange girl who thought about saucepans. He quickly forgot about that meeting; after all, it was a minute-long conversation that in the end was of no importance to him. He had other things to deal with. Such as his bozo of a best friend.

"Aw, c'mon man!" Hardy cried. "You're never any fun."

"I'm fun," Ezra said defensively. "I just don't like making a fool of myself."

"But that's the beauty of it," Hardy replied. "Streak around the neighborhood like a madman, have some fun, and go home knowing that you'll have a story to tell the kiddies in the future. Then they can never call you an old fogey or whatever the terminology is twenty years from now."

"I don't feel like getting arrested for public indecency."

Silence.

"Okay, okay," Hardy said. "Maybe doing something illegal is a bad idea. But when was the last time you did anything spontaneous and exciting? You didn't go sky diving with me last week, and you refused the impromptu road trip the week before that. You don't live, man."

Ezra gave him an incredulous look. "You do realize that I impulsively proposed to my girlfriend in Italy, right? And look how that turned out. I just don't see the point in unplanned, possibly dangerous shenanigans when I could be doing safer things that are just as fun. Reading a good book, for example."

That last comment earned Ezra a withering look from his friend. "And that," Hardy said, "is exactly why you need to act more impulsively. You're scared of getting burned again so you hole up safe and sound in your apartment. Good sir, you need to get back on the horse, face the unknown, give the finger to all your fears, and reap the unexpected rewards."

"That wasn't exactly the best use of metaphors."

Ezra's friend gave a lopsided grin. "Well, I'm not the English lit grad." Taking a sip of his beer, he continued. "But seriously, you need to shake up your life. So how about this: sometime in the next two weeks, I want you to take some sort of risk. It doesn't have to be spontaneous, or something big like sky diving, but it has to be something you're scared of doing. Like...eating calamari. You've never done that before, and I see the look of terror you get when someone mentions ordering it."

"You wouldn't eat it either if you realized how far from the ocean we are," Ezra replied drily. After a brief pause, he asked a question. "What will you give me for it?"

"Fifty bucks," came the reply.

* * *

"I can't believe I actually agreed to it," he muttered to himself later. _Oh come on_, he thought. _Fifty bucks for eating calamari. You can do it. People do it all the time. _

But...tentacles.

Okay, maybe not calamari. What else? Sky diving? Too dangerous.

"_Do you ever think about saucepans?"_

What?

"Get a grip," he said aloud. "You're going crazy."

* * *

"Okay, you can do it," he whispered as he stood in line for the hot dog vendor currently stationed at the local park. "One hotdog, with relish. Pickles. Cucumbers, really. Harmless cucumbers, which are composed mostly of water. One hotdog, with cucumbers. Eat it, and the money's yours."

Three people ahead of him. Two. One.

"What can I get ya?" the vendor asked.

He took a deep breath. "One hotdog with―"

Ezra stared at the large plastic jar filled with relish. Green. Not a nice green, rich and vibrant with life, but a sick, grayish green. Little pieces of pickle floating around in some strange, semi-gelatinous liquid. That sickly sweet-sour smell of vegetables preserved for months, maybe years in vinegar, sugar and...something else. Not identifiable. He bolted.

"So maybe not relish," he said to himself. "You still have time. There are three hours before time's up. You can find something." Scanning the street for something, anything to do, he saw that the pub was open and started walking towards it. After staring at that vomit-inducing jar of relish, he could definitely use a drink. Besides, he could kill two birds with one stone and for the first time in his life, get drunk during the daytime. That would certainly be enough to win Hardy's little bet.

* * *

"Can I get a cheeseburger, please?"

_Do you ever think about saucepans?_

Ezra's head jerked up as he heard the familiar-sounding voice. Was it her? No, someone else; this person's voice had a slightly different cadence, and her hair was a shade lighter. Definitely a natural brunette, unlike that other one whose blonde eyebrows indicated her actual hair color. Still, the resemblance was uncanny, at least from what he could tell in the dimly lit room.

She was actually quite cute.

_Nah, she probably has a boyfriend._

_But what if she doesn't?_

_Besides, you could get twice the money out of Hardy for this. And maybe something more._

Gathering up his courage, he opened his mouth.

"You alright down there?"


End file.
